Goodnight, Orihara-san
by SYNdicate 930
Summary: AU. As a single dad, Izaya finds it increasingly taxing to keep his hands off the Heiwajima boy next door. And with the temperatures rising, how will Shizuo handle the heat? Shizaya, hints of Izuo.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Goodnight, Orihara-san.  
 **Author:** SYNdicate 930.  
 **Summary:** AU. As a single dad, Izaya finds it increasingly taxing to keep his hands off the Heiwajima boy next door. And with the temperatures rising, how will Shizuo handle the heat? Shizaya, hints of Izuo.

 **Chapter 1:** Summer Job

 **Wednesday, 17:46**

"Hurry up, Shizuo-kun!" Tom's voice is muffled by the locked door that separates us. He gives a couple of slow knocks before an experimental shake of the unrelenting knob leaves him sighing. I can already see his shoulders dropping the way they always do when he does. "We have to get going. Are you ready? Come out."

"I don't want to." Yet, even as I say this, I'm getting off of my bed and walking towards my dresser to change out of my pajamas. I drop my lose-fitted bottoms and pull on a clean pair of jeans and t-shirt. Blue denim, plain white v-neck, simple but enough to give Tom the impression I've tried to look good for dinner with the neighbors. I've never been very picky with clothes, anyway; just nothing flashy, it's how I've always been. If this doesn't please him, I'm not sure what will.

"Come on, Shizuo-kun. This'll be a great chance to make friends; I hear he has a son."

"Oh? Good for him." I open the door to find myself under Tom's scrutiny. He checks my hair, a dishevelled mess of flaxen strands, my poorly ironed—but _clean_ , I stress, when he points out the wrinkles of my left sleeve and lower half of my jeans—outfit and mismatched socks. He pauses briefly, but he doesn't call me out on the socks. "Can't I just stay home?"

"It's just dinner. You'll be fine."

"Whatever."

He steps closer and inhales deeply, his brows furrowing with accusatory doubt. He catches my eye and holds it. "Have you been smoking again?"

"No." The both of us take my answer for what it is—a blatant lie.

"As long as you don't get caught, it's fine. I don't want you taken away because I let you get away with it." I've always liked his casualness and slack method of parenting. It makes him feel more like a roommate than a guardian, which is always nice. No tension, no power struggle, no misunderstandings. The subject drops, and I follow Tom into the kitchen where he hands me a bright orange box before excusing himself at the noise of his cellphone ringing in the pocket of his blazer. There are English words written in beautifully, yet obscurely so, printed gold handwriting on the box, but my English isn't fluent enough to make out what it says. Cursive is a different language all on its own.

"What's this for?"

"It's a cake I bought to bring over. You know, to say thanks for inviting us over?" He doesn't look over his shoulder to reply. "Sorry, give me a sec, I need to answer this."

Tom hurries into his room down the hall, sounding a little distressed as he greets the caller. I don't blame him, though. Working as a specialist in the ER sounds like enough pressure for a lifetime, and it doesn't help coming home to and constantly having to worry over his adopted son getting himself into trouble. But it's not like I mean to cause him trouble. Fights with other boys at school, phone calls from my teachers, and dwindling grades—these things are as set in stone in my life as the stars in the night sky. At least school's over for the next couple of months.

In Tom's absence, I wander into the living room to watch some television with a yawn and crippling slouch into the leather material of my favorite recliner. I've ditched the cake in the fridge. Women's health, the sports network, news, news, news, celebrity gossip, television bores me. Regardless, I settle for my favorite music channel I used to watch regularly when we still lived in Japan. You can say I'm not completely used to life in America and the initial shock from the difference in dynamics and locals was enough to keep me locked in my room for two weeks straight, but I'm a lot better than I used to be. It's been almost two years, but I've learned to deal. A lot can happen in two years; I was fourteen with no other choice.

"I understand. I'll be there ASAP." Looking over my shoulder, I watch Tom haul his work bag over his shoulder wearily as he pockets his phone in resignation. Pursing his lips, he explains that he received a call from the hospital he works at, and that he's been asked to come in and help. He doesn't give me any specifics—Tom never really does, he says it's too much for a teenager to comprehend—but urges I go to dinner at the neighbor's by myself.

"What? Why?"

"Just go on without me, I swear I'll make it up to you."

"There's no way you're getting me to go over to some stranger's house by myself. You know I don't do well around new people."

"If you go, I'll extend your curfew."

"What? I don't have a curfew."

"You will if you don't have dinner with the neighbors."

I get up instantly, making my way around the couch to face him properly, to talk some sense into that medical brain of his. It's not like I stayed out late to begin with, I never had much of a reason to in the past, but the thought of having my freedom limited doesn't sit well with me. "You wouldn't—"

Shoving the cake box into my arms for a second time, Tom smiles. "So we've come to an understanding. Good. I'll be home as soon as possible. If you're still hungry after the dinner, there's food in the fridge. I bought milk this morning while you were asleep."

I'm speechless, and I try to reason with him while he slips on his shoes but it's no use. Rushing off to his car, I watch as Tom hurries away in his expensive black Audi, skittering down the smooth pavement with adolescent recklessness I figured he would have discarded the moment he adopted me but old habits and ways of being die hard. I wave at him, though I know he can't see me by now.

 **18:26**

 _Ding. Dong_.

Here I stand at the entrance to my neighbor's home. The house is how I've always imagined modern houses to look; odd shapes, abstract edges and an abundance of glass in place of sturdy brick walls, a flat roof as opposed to the traditionally triangular ones I had always drawn as a child. It's a beautiful home regardless. Just like the ones in the magazines in the hospital waiting area.

I try to piece together my neighbor's character using whatever I can as tell-tale signs as I wait to be greeted. Green, freshly cut grass, no flowers, no trees, a straight, long-winding driveway with a car I assume is parked in the garage. Nothing I couldn't already see from my bedroom window. A practical fellow, one who doesn't have time or energy to waste on things like gardening. I've seen quick glimpses of a young fellow, probably his son, here and there but I don't think I've really seen him. He's probably some old geezer who went and had a child with a woman much younger than him. That sort of thing happened a lot these days, especially in rich areas like these.

"Hello." A Japanese boy purrs. Dark hair, dark shirt, dark pants, dark shoes, an unbelievably bloody set of sardonic irises. This must be my neighbor's son. Through the cloth of his deep v-neck, I can make out the lines of his clavicles easily, and follow downward to take in his slim figure. He's almost a head shorter than me, but it looks like he's stopped growing. How old did Tom say his son was? Seventeen? Eighteen? Nineteen at most? Twenty was a lesser possibility. Maybe even twenty-one, but that was really pushing it. I hardly believe he's graduated high school yet.

"Uhm, hello. I'm Heiwajima Shizuo from next door. My dad—" The words feel uncomfortable. I've never had to call Tom 'dad' at home; only when I speak to strangers do I force myself to do it. It's easier than explaining my adoption situation. " –said to come over for dinner."

"Oh? You're Tom-san's boy. It's nice to meet you." When my eyes hit the floor, I trail them upwards, eyes ghosting over his incredibly skinny jeans, staring down the collar of his shirt, and then to his face. He's caught me staring, but he doesn't seem put-off. With the suggestion of a smirk, he holds my stare and the crimson of his eyes is enough to singe my eyelashes and the tips of my fringe. "The name is Orihara Izaya. Please, come in."

I make it a point to bow before following him indoors. I have to remember to be excessively respectful now that I'm here and without Tom's incessant reminders and cues to guide me. I close the door behind me and pause to slip off my shoes, but, when he continues onto the black tile of his living room and kitchen, I fall back into step after him, sneakers squeaking. So they wear shoes in the house. Interesting. Masaomi is the only Japanese person I know who wears shoes indoors. Kadota did occasionally.

Inside, I take in the high ceiling and dark interior with wandering eyes. The home is lightly furnished and smells of strong alcohol and laundry (yet I do not see their sources), with a monochromatic color-scheme consisting of dark grays, white, deeper tones reminiscent of navy and rogue scattered about haphazardly, and solid, brooding black. The walls are painted a deeper shade of gray, and would otherwise appear unsettling if it weren't for the large windows providing lavish quantities of sunlight from all angles.

"So, where's Tom-san?" He perches atop a high stool at the marble island in the kitchen. The aroma of detergent is coming from the bedsheets drying outside on the deck beside us, and the alcohol can be traced to Izaya, which would explain his peculiar tone of voice and demeanor. I'm not sure what to do with myself, so I stand a foot or two away from him awkwardly.

"Something came up at work. He works in the ER." A little vague of an answer, but it's all the concrete I've got.

"What a shame. I was really looking forward to having him over." There's a glint in his eye. "Nothing we can do about it, though, right? Work can be very demanding sometimes."

He doesn't care. He's shrugging this off so coyly, without intention, a careless teenager playing sarcastically nice on his father's behalf. But I'm not offended; rarely do children care for the social endeavors of their caregivers. "I brought cake."

I lift the cake box and watch his eyes dance over the colorful cardboard with mild amusement as he takes it from my grasp. The tips of his fingers graze my knuckles, and they slide themselves down the length of my digits, ghosting over the proximal to distal with such a sustained largo it couldn't have been accidental. "Eh, how thoughtful of you."

Words die out immediately, and we find ourselves orbiting next to each other in unsettling silence as he flips open the flimsy lid to gaze at the lightly, but prettily, decorated cake and I resist the urge to whip out my phone to slacken my tense shoulders. I take this opportunity to eye some more of the glum home and its bleak, yet charmingly unorthodox, air, cocking my head this way and that in an attempt to appear absorbed curiously in aesthetics, which I kind of am. I wonder what his father thought of this place, or if it had been his idea to paint over whatever color there might have been before. In the corner of my eye, I see him tilt his face upward at me. He's looking at me, but I pretend not to see to ease the way it's spiked how uncomfortable he makes me.

"You're in high school, right?" He asks, and I unwillingly return my attention to him. "Tom says you attend Raira Academy. What year are you going into this fall?"

"Third."

"Hard to believe. You look much older for someone your age. It's humorous." He finishes with an unsettling laughter. It shakes my spine with icy breaths, drawing forth from my arms goosebumps upon goosebumps. "You don't seem like a bright student, or even just bright in general."

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me, how do you find school? I hear you might need assistance this upcoming year." He places the cake on the counter before standing from his stool to pace around me. "What do you attribute your mediocre academic scores this past year to? Girls? Disinterest? Limited—or, maybe even a lack of—cognitive power?"

"My grades are none of your business."

"Oh, but they are." The quirk of a brow prompts him to continue with a nasty mirth that pulls at the corners of his lips. "I've offered my tutoring services to Tom the other day. He and I have yet to fully discuss details, but I suggest you remind him of this later. You seem like you'll need it."

It's so obvious he's calling me stupid. Tom's sharing my grades with complete strangers can be dealt with later. Until then, something must be done about Izaya and that fucking mouth of his. "Why should I let you tutor me? What makes you so qualified?"

"A university degree." Following his gaze over his shoulder are several framed award—all academic, with said degree hung strategically in the center of the abstract mess of honors and high achievements. In black text reads _University of Raijin_ , with the Kanji used for Izaya's name printed beneath. I turn to look at him. Maybe twenty-one wasn't pushing it. "Or several."

"But you look so young. You can't possibly have skipped that many grades to have already ended up with a _degree_." Let alone _several_.

"Why, thank you. I take pride in my youthful veneer."

"How old are you?"

"Guess."

"Twenty-one?"

"How about another guess?"

"What, too high? You can't be seventeen. Are you?"

"I'm flattered." He crosses his arms and rests against the fridge behind him. "But you're mistaken. You've missed the mark completely."

Just as I'm about to ask for his age, the doorbell rings through the house and he excuses himself briefly. From my place in the kitchen, I can see the door open to reveal two girls reminiscent of each other and a young boy, who, with open arms, rushes to cling to Izaya's legs. Izaya converses with the girls before they depart, and, leading the child by the hand, I come to notice the resemblance between the two.

"I had so much fun with auntie Kururi and auntie Mairu! They took me to the fair, and I even got to pet a pony at the petting zoo!" The boy gushes. I'm more than confused. Tom said he only had one son.

"Shizuo, I would like you to meet my little boy, Psyche."

 **Wednesday, 20:45**

Dinner was as painful as I had anticipated. My gut feelings rarely do me disservice. The more I linger on the memory, the more cringe-worthy it starts to feel in my stomach. It turns out Izaya was the old geezer I had expected to meet, and that child was the son I was told about earlier. I'm surfing the web on my laptop when Tom arrives home. He comes into my room to ask me about how things went, to which I answer with a brief inquiry about the disclosure of my grades.

"Izaya is a university professor." He reveals as he leans against the wooden door frame. There is a little blood smeared on his forearm, and his muted maroon uniform is a mess of wrinkles. "Before I forget, were you still looking for a summer job? I have something for you."

His promise warrants my complete attention. I turn in my computer chair to look at him properly. "Go on."

"Not only is he a university professor, but he's an excellent tutor. He used to tutor my coworker's daughter before we moved houses, and she made honor roll for the first time."

"So what does that have anything to do with getting a summer job?"

"You see, we talked about you going over to babysit his son. He'll pay you more than minimum wage and he's offered to tutor you during the summer for free, too."

"An easy baby sitting job with high pay sounds nice. I could do without the tutoring, though."

"You could, but you won't. Shizuo, you need to do something about your grades this coming school year. You start Saturday morning. He'll brief you when you get there." I sigh. With my dwindling motivation and track record, junior year already looks like a challenge we both know I'll barely survive. Past tutors say I'm smart enough, but lost the will to instruct such a disinterested pupil. I've never had a reason to do well because there has never been anyone for me to impress, myself included. Honor roll is a meaningless title, and "AP" is just two letters of the alphabet placed together and attributed a high status and warranted praise. Tom retreats to his room with a yawn and wave of his hand. He isn't mad. He's never gotten upset about my grades or overall standing before, even with the heavier pressures of Japanese academics while we still lived overseas. Tom closes the door behind him and I wait a few minutes before slipping down the hall into the bathroom to brush my teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Goodnight, Orihara-san.  
 **Author:** SYNdicate 930.  
 **Summary:** AU. As a single dad, Izaya finds it increasingly taxing to keep his hands off the Heiwajima boy next door. Shizaya, hints of Izuo.

 **Note:** I apologize for the size of this chapter. I plan on posting lengthier chapters in the future. For now, enjoy and thank you for your support!

 **Chapter 2:** **Week 1 - Summer Job**

 **Friday, July 4th, 10:23**

It's far too early to be conscious and functioning, even if barely. The sky is absent of any clouds, the air hot and dry, with not so much as a breeze to lighten Mother Nature's burdensome humid weather. I reach over to my night stand to check my phone. A couple of missed hyperactive texts from Masaomi, and a reminder from Tom to mow the lawn at some point during the day. Do-able. But I'll more than likely procrastinate until next week, when Tom realizes, chiding and nagging until I come around unwilling and whining throughout. Speaking of Tom, his car is missing in our driveway, and there's the faint scent of his cologne in the bathroom.

On facebook Kyohei complains about the odd customers at his summer job, and I snort rolling out of bed. I text Kyohei to see if he wants to go bike-riding later but there's no response until early in the afternoon. _Can't_ , the text reads, _working overtime. Erika broke her leg. Walker and I are splitting her shifts until she gets better_.

 _Sorry to hear_ , I text back with heartfelt sympathy, ignoring the screaming emitting from the horror movie I have playing on the living room television. Erika is a sweet girl with brunette hair Masaomi and I met when visiting Kyohei at work. Naturally, he approached her with a coy smirk and unruly style of flirting that she was too meek to fully grasp. Though fiery and overly zealous when it comes to her odd hobbies and areas of keen interest, I really like Erika overall. She isn't fussy about many things and knows how to keep a conversation alive, and if it weren't for her, I wouldn't have met Walker or Togusa either. You could say we're good friends, but I've never been alone with her before. I don't think I could handle someone as buoyant as her.

 _Togusa, Walker and I are visiting her at the hospital in the evening, wanna come?_

 _Can't. Gotta make dinner later. Sorry._

 _It's ok. We can hang out when she gets better_

 _Sounds good. Tell her I hope she gets well soon._

 _Will do._

Masaomi and I text back-and-forth across the span of a monotonous day. Sometimes he will reply the moment I do, and sometimes I can't be bothered. He's away these next few of weeks with his family visiting relatives in Japan.

Unlike me, Masaomi was born and raised in America, with little to no Japanese to him other than his name and buoyant face. I had approached him in school during after my first week of classes, initially with the intention of finding someone I could relate to culturally because of his name. I heard stories about him through the grapevine and constant flow of girls, but I never expected him to be so Westernized. He took an instant liking to me, and hasn't been able to leave me alone since. Masaomi taught me a more casual style of English books and professional tutoring failed to do.

With the only two people I tolerate absent, I spend the remainder of the day browsing the internet on my phone, napping in front of the television, and organizing my bookshelf. I have two out of four shelves filled completely, while the top half holds my notebooks from this past school year and videogames. There are some dashes of Kafka, with blacks and profound blues from Poe, and intricate Nabakovian prose, my literary repertoire is something I'm rather proud of in combination to my collection of fighter games, Japanese role-playing games, and anime figurines of some of my favorite characters.

Gathering my used notebooks and school work to recycle, wedged against the very end of the highest shelf, dusty and lightly ripped, are old translation books Tom had given me. When we had first moved, leaning a foreign language was laborious, but not unfeasible. I'd had seen many subtitled English-speaking movies and television with Tom and my old friends in the past, so being able to fake and force a passable American accent made matters less painful. We speak Japanese at home. Mostly. He wants me to practice my English, but to never for get my native tongue. Like I _ever_ could.

I jam all of my past-work into our recycling bin in the garage and return inside to take out some chicken from the freezer to defrost in the sink for later. When Tom arrives home, I'm in the kitchen in the middle of cooking dinner for the two of us. He doesn't offer to help set the table or spare a hand with preparations, but it's cool. I don't really need assistance.

Tom's uniform is clean, but wrinkled from a day's work nonetheless as he drops his bag to the floor by our shoe rack. I greet him, to which he responds with an exhausted grunt. Something tells me he's had a rough day. He goes upstairs to the main bathroom to shower while I tackle tonight's rice.

When he returns to the kitchen with his hair dried and his pajamas on, I'm pulling out chopsticks from the draw by the sink and taking cups out of our mahogany dine absorbed in conversation and lightly singed _karaage_ , but Tom doesn't seem bothered by it. My _chahan_ makes up for it, I think. It's one of my specialties. His mood is seemingly better after a few mouthfuls of food, but not significantly.

"Have you thought about what you want to do after high school?" I almost drop my glass of water. I can feel Tom's stare and I shake my head. "Well, you better start looking into that, Shizuo-kun. That way you can focus your studies towards something you'll end up needing in university. That's what I did. I wanted to work in the E.R., so I did everything I can to make sure my fundamentals were solid and look at me now."

"Okay, but don't expect me to study what you did in school."

He reaches for a second serving of rice as I claim the last piece of chicken. "I'm not saying I want you to follow in my footsteps. I just want you to look at your options. You're a smart boy, even if you don't think so."

"I guess."

"Think about what you want to do and what you would be good at, okay?"

"Alright." Truthfully, I already have. Frequently. Mostly when I'm in the shower, or when I go for bikes around the neighborhood by myself. When I'm alone and able to organize my thoughts without Tom nagging me or Masaomi trying to set me up with girls he knows, things like my future and where I'll be several years down the road plague me. An occupation rooted in business appeals to someone like me, who strays and fails in the field of sciences and arts. My math is superb and the only thing I really have going for me other than my ability to luck out on assignments and exams, though my ambition and motivation to excel is acutely lacking for a world as cut-throat and dog-eat-dog as business.

We finish eating to the sound of the house phone ringing, and Tom's chair screeching against the floor as he goes to answer it. I place the dishes in the washer and take out the trash quickly. There is the sound of thunder at a far distance as it begins to pour on my way up the driveway. I shake my hair loose of droplets as I close the door behind me. Tom chuckles at me and I flip him off.

Upstairs, I peel off my shirt and change into a pair of dry, striped boxers. My bare chest is rough with goosebumps and trembling, damp, and cold to the touch. There's no point in drying-off my hair or throwing on a shirt, so I go over to my desk to browse video-game forums and facebook on my laptop until exhaustion takes over and it becomes clear I won't survive tomorrow on only five hours of sleep. By habit, I've deposited today's clothes to the floor by my closet, far too sluggish to truly care.

Outside, it continues to rain, though tonight's thunder sounds closer than it had after dinner. Lightning flashes on the other side of my window blinding me momentarily on my way to shut my blinds, suddenly feeling watched and naked. The window parallel to mine on the side of Izaya's house is lit dimly, probably by the light of a television or bright computer monitor.

 **Saturday, July 5th, 9:39**

Tom's gone when I roll out of bed and out of a psychedelic dream of white and pink, with unidentifiable music blaring from invisible speakers. His work and personal schedule is so inconsistent and turbulent, and muddled together, that it's peculiar when he actually spends an entire day home. It doesn't occur often, but when it does, it's a little unnatural. The bathroom mirror shows signs of being fogged up just moments ago as the haze that covers it begins to clear enough that I can make out my haggard expression and tuff of scruffy blonde hair. I debate as to whether or not today is worth showering for. According to Tom, I'll be over at the neighbours for a few hours babysitting, whatever that really means.

Realizing I don't have to be over until later in the morning, I take this time to blast fast-paced _visual-kei_ from my phone while I stand under the running shower head.

It's not until the second song starts playing through its upbeat, vigorous chorus that I start to shampoo my hair and drench myself in a new bottle of minty body wash. It's a sharp scent that lingers against my skin while I brush my teeth and rinse my mouth with a half-water-half-mouth-wash combo. With my towel around my hips, and a short one hanging around my shoulders, I drop last night's boxers into my hamper by my closet. My clothes are still damp from last night, but they've dried enough that they're colder than they are soaked.

I park myself in front of my laptop to resume last night's browsing, pulling myself away only briefly every few minutes to dry my hair using the towel around my shoulders. I still have another hour and a half to blow, so, inserting my earbuds into the side of my mac book, skim through websites and parts of the internet I'd rather die than talk to Tom about. Unwrapping my towel, I get off to an hour-long video of girl-on-girl action, skipping to the last scene's orgasm in order to achieve my own. Instead of using my towel, I grab some Kleenex from my tissue box on my nightstand, and return to the sink to wash my hands.

There's still a little over an hour left to go, so I decide to get dressed quickly then go down to make some breakfast. I pull one of my many plain t-shirts off its hanger, and pair the black shirt with a pair of blue jeans I haven't touched in ages. They fit me the way I'd like it to, a little tight fitting, but enough wiggle room, but the stubborn zipper reminds me of why I'd stopped wearing it all together. For once, my socks actually match.

In the kitchen, I prepare myself a bowl of frosted-flakes cereal, and a couple pieces of toast. I spread the last of our Nutella on my toast before adding it to my grocery list on the phone, right under new batteries for the television remote (we've been using the batteries we took out of our emergency flashlight these past few days), dish soap (on sale until tomorrow), and soya sauce (the one with the red label, not the gross one with the blue label). I'm sure Tom has his own list made, so I'll hold off on going to the supermarket until I see him next. Last time there were duplicate purchases, we had two cartons of twenty eggs and more buy-one-get-one-free conditioner than needed by two, unruly men who barely understand the need to do any more to hair than shampoo and trim every now and then.

My phone vibrates twice. There's a text from Masaomi, follow by a picture of he and cousins out shopping in Akihabara.

 _Look at all these video games I bought! These haven't even been released where we live yet. I can't wait to get back home, I already miss my PS4!_

I snort. _Won't they be in Japanese then? You barely know how to spell your own name in katakana, let alone navigate through a video game that uses katakana, hiragana, and kanji. Loser_

There's a time stamp under my last text, indicating he's read it, but he does not respond. It's only as I'm about to head out that he replies with another picture attached.

 _Just returned all of those games. Fuck my life ;_;_

 **Saturday, July 5th, 11:44**

I don't want to be here. I attempt to mask it, but there's really no use.

"Good morning, Shizuo," I'm taken aback by his eccentricity.

"Morning."

Izaya steps aside to allow me to pass through, shutting the door behind him softly as my eyes lock onto the little boy on the living room sofa. He's too absorbed in Saturday morning cartoons to notice my arrival, so Izaya takes this opportunity to give me a short run-down of what to do and expect. To summarize, I'm here to care for his son, Psyche. It's a bizarre name, but, then again, so is Izaya.

"Prepare his meals, play with him, and make sure he's taken care of while I'm in my study upstairs or out of the house. Additionally, you will be required to cook for me as well, and tidy around the house when needed." I spare a look around the first floor as he continues. "Think of yourself as more of a nanny than a casual babysitter, really. Psyche starts day camp on Monday. Make sure to get him there by ten, and to pick him up when its over around six. When he is gone, I will tutor you so you may focus properly. You will be working this weekend, but I intend on giving you Saturdays and Sundays off. Any questions?"

I shake my head, and he makes his way through the kitchen and then upstairs. "Good. Now, take care and get to know Psyche while I'm upstairs. We just had lunch, so prepare dinner later on. Make what you see fit. Neither of us of allergies."

It's some time during a commercial break that Psyche becomes aware of my uncomfortable presence. He recognizes me from a few days ago, but he doesn't seem particularly thrilled or moved by my appearance, though he isn't displeased when I go over to sit by him. Izaya's leather couch screeches softly under me.

"Hey." There's no response. "Remember me? I'm Shizuo, from the other day."

He nods, a smile quickly spreading from ear to sweet ear.

Throughout the day, Izaya runs down to check on the two of us. Psyche speak animatedly to his father, but Izaya appears vacant and unmoved by the little boy's elation. Izaya nods and feigns interest the way parents do, though his mind appears elsewhere. I try not to over-analyze him when it feels as if he's examining me and my entirety; as if a single glance can summarize me whole. When he stares at me, I become tense. He senses this, and the resulting grin is enough to unnerve and dismantle.

 **Saturday, July 5th, 19:20**

I find myself amidst terribly strained conversation with the Oriharas over dinner. Psyche's buoyancy and honeyed way of thinking sets me at ease whenever Izaya's outlandish demeanor leaves me feeling antsy and verbally assaulted. Izaya has a dishonest face, with an exceedingly polished vocabulary and method of configuring dubious sentences using a tone which intrudes upon the border of sincerity and beguiling deceit. After dinner, Izaya takes Psyche upstairs to change him into his pajamas while I clear the table and clean the dishes. Their top-of-the-line dish washer confuses me, so I do the dishes at the sink manually. I pull on the rubber gloves found under the sink, and get to work promptly. As I place the last dish onto the rack, Izaya's running down the stairs, his jacket flying after him, with a yawn prying his thin lips apart. "Why didn't you use the dish washer?"

My pride overpowers my honesty. "I prefer doing dishes by hand."

He shrugs. "Dinner was great. How is your first day going? Alright?"

Truthfully, most of my time and energy had been spent on Psyche, who, for his age, was exceptionally well-mannered and compliant. He played nicely, said his 'please's and 'thank you's without reminder, and colored in the lines of his coloring book better than I could ever do myself at four (and a half, he stated with a dramatic, forced pause) years old. "It was good. Psyche's a good kid."

"Lucky, aren't I? He'll grow up to be smarter than me in no time." He sighs proudly, and the notion is slightly intimidating. Izaya had skipped more grades than I can make a rock skip against a lake's surface (five or six, maybe seven on a good day), with more degrees, awards, and certificates I thought possible. There is a pause. I pull off my gloves and leave them by the sink awkwardly. "I've already tucked Psyche into bed. You may take your leave."

Izaya shows me to the door, and, despite his off-putting persona, this arrangement seems bearable. Then again, tutoring does not start until Monday. "What time should I be over tomorrow?"

"Come by around the same time." I'm standing outside now, in the door way with my hands in my pockets. Izaya pulls out his wallet and hands me today's pay. He hands the money to me, and I thank him awkwardly. I turn to leave, and on my way down the drive way he calls after me. _"Goodnight, Shizuo-kun."_

His Japanese is maddeningly urbane, with an inflection expressing fluency and confidence in his beautiful speech. He waits, unspeaking, prompting me with his complacent silence to bid adieu in a similar manner. In Japanese, I return the farewell.

 _"Goodnight, Orihara-san."_


End file.
